Time to see the GP again, I think
I did a cleanout of my outbox yesterday - well, a cleanout of all my various mail folders in Eudora, archiving everything into a couple of boxes for 2005 and 2006. During this cleanout, I discovered I haven't actually sent anything from a fanfiction series I'm writing to my beta-reader for over a year. I know I've written something in it (it's a two-parter, and I want to finish both parts before I send it) but I had no idea it had been that long between updates.
I've also noticed my inspiration for writing, as well as my inclination for same, has also been going down the gurgler slowly, over the past year. These last couple of months, I've been noticing I'm having more and more depressive behaviours, and more and more actual depressive episodes.
I get the strong suspicion the Zoloft isn't being as effective as it could be.
So, I shall head over to the doctor's surgery, book me an appointment, and get a blood test done as well, to find out what the heck is happening with various hormones and so-on. I may have to increase the dose of my medication for depression, or I may have to change antidepressant medications altogether. Alternatively, I may need to get something to help the whole business with the interaction between the Zoloft and the thyroid hormone supplement I'm on. It appears the supplement interferes with the metabolism of some SSRI antidepressants. So I can either have enough thyroxine to be able to function (and thus have a less effective run of antidepressant) or I can be happy as a sandboy on the Zoloft (and have my metabolism running at half speed). Choices, choices.
I suppose I should be glad it's held for this long (about four years, I think). But I find myself annoyed by the slow creep back into the miseries, and the fact that if it hadn't been for a fit of tidying mania on Sunday, I'd not have realised the extent of the problem. Damnit, I spent sixteen years being depressed. I've only spent about six out of it. I don't want to go back - I've at least another ten years I want to get through. When I think of the prospect of spending the rest of my life in the middle of the miseries (and given I'm from a long-lived family, it could be another fifty years at least), I get a strong urge to either walk out into the path of an oncoming truck, or see whether I can swim all the way to South Africa.
Ach, shurrup, Meg. Go see the doctor, and tell her all about this. She's much more likely to have something sensible as can be done about it.
I've also noticed my inspiration for writing, as well as my inclination for same, has also been going down the gurgler slowly, over the past year. These last couple of months, I've been noticing I'm having more and more depressive behaviours, and more and more actual depressive episodes.
I get the strong suspicion the Zoloft isn't being as effective as it could be.
So, I shall head over to the doctor's surgery, book me an appointment, and get a blood test done as well, to find out what the heck is happening with various hormones and so-on. I may have to increase the dose of my medication for depression, or I may have to change antidepressant medications altogether. Alternatively, I may need to get something to help the whole business with the interaction between the Zoloft and the thyroid hormone supplement I'm on. It appears the supplement interferes with the metabolism of some SSRI antidepressants. So I can either have enough thyroxine to be able to function (and thus have a less effective run of antidepressant) or I can be happy as a sandboy on the Zoloft (and have my metabolism running at half speed). Choices, choices.
I suppose I should be glad it's held for this long (about four years, I think). But I find myself annoyed by the slow creep back into the miseries, and the fact that if it hadn't been for a fit of tidying mania on Sunday, I'd not have realised the extent of the problem. Damnit, I spent sixteen years being depressed. I've only spent about six out of it. I don't want to go back - I've at least another ten years I want to get through. When I think of the prospect of spending the rest of my life in the middle of the miseries (and given I'm from a long-lived family, it could be another fifty years at least), I get a strong urge to either walk out into the path of an oncoming truck, or see whether I can swim all the way to South Africa.
Ach, shurrup, Meg. Go see the doctor, and tell her all about this. She's much more likely to have something sensible as can be done about it.